“You think it’s important?”
“It could be.”
“Because you think that sadness, that fear, is mine?” she says, the insight becoming clear. “You think this Colin is reflecting my own feelings back at me, and by talking to him about his fears, I will be addressing my own?”
Dr Mal smiles. “You’re getting good at this. Yes, that’s exactly what I think. Hold on a minute. You say you shook hands with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Grace shrugs. “I don’t really know. I suppose because it doesn’t hurt to be polite.”
“No, but you already told me you can’t stand skin contact with strangers, in case of cold fish syndrome. What made you think Colin would be any different?”
“I didn’t really think about it,” Grace says. “It was a spur of the moment thing, and at the time I was convinced he wasn’t real. Besides, if I did make someone up inside my head, I’m not going to give them the one thing that repels me most, am I?”
“So you are coming round to the possibility he might be your creation?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“And what will you do, if you meet him again, and you discover he has bad breath and BO? Will you reject him and start again?”
“That depends. I never noticed any nasties the first time, so if I do meet him again, and I can’t make any promises on that score, and I like him despite any negativities, I can either ignore them, work around them or, if they are troublesome and get in the way of progress, work on re-evaluating his attributes and getting rid of them.”
“Like rewriting computer code to make the game run better?” he says. “Changing the parameters to smooth out a glitch?”
“Just so.”
“Do you think that is a good idea? What’s wrong with a few imperfections?”
“They go against my … pernicketiness.”
Pause.
“Here’s something for you to think about,” says Mal. “If the man is a construct of your imaginings, might his physical faults be your unconscious way of reflecting different parts of your own psyche. His bad breath becomes representative of, say, your feelings of self loathing, his BO your own expectation of being rejected. Both conditions keep other people at a distance.”
“My own flaws made flesh,” she says, thoughtfully. “Rewriting my own code to make him fresh and sweet smelling? My way of telling myself that if I make a few changes here and there, even I can be more acceptable, more –?”
“Loveable?”
She snorts. “Like that’s ever going to happen. It’s an interesting concept.”
“Something for you to think about and work on for next time, eh?”
Grace’s gaze darts to the clock on the wall, standing proud at three o’clock. “What! No. Time can’t be up already.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“But I have something to tell you … to show you. Can I have one more minute? Please?”
Mal glances at his watch, as if it and the clock might differ. “Okay, but just one. My next patient will be waiting.”
She hoiks up the sleeve of her sweater to show him the elbow roughly seized by Colin McLeod, and the four small purple stains in her pale skin.
“What do you make of these?” she says.
Mal gives the marks a cursory glance. “A collection of small bruises? How did that happen?”
“Look closer.”
He lifts his glasses and puts his face close to her arm. “They look like the marks left when fingertips have been pressed into the skin.”
“That’s exactly what they are. Remember I told you Colin had me by the elbow when he tried to force me to leave?”
“I thought you meant metaphorically.”
“No. He actually did grab me. Roughly too, and it hurt, although he did apologise when I threatened to report him for assault. Who would I report an imaginary person to by the way?”
Mal scrutinises the marks a second time. “You’re saying he did this? Your imaginary friend made actual physical marks on your skin when he took hold of you?”
Did anything ever sound quite so ridiculous?
“Yes,” she says, and Dr Malcolm Pettit makes a low humming sound deep in his throat.
And that sound says it all, the pitch the tone conveying one bland fact – he doesn’t believe her. Although he does not come out and voice his accusation, she can tell what he’s thinking - she made the marks herself, to play for sympathy, to seek more of his time and attention. Well, she wasn’t going to get it.
“I’ll see you same time next week, Grace,” he says, dropping her file onto the coffee table and heading for the door. “You’ve done really well, made some great inroads.”
He’s making the effort to sound sincere, encouraging even, yet to Grace’s ears, the words come across more a polite dismissal, and she can see the disappointment in his eyes.
They exchange brief and terse farewells, and in the time it takes for her to cross the threshold of his office she has already decided - there may not be another appointment.
She trudges through the outer office, past the secretary, who bids her a bright, “Cheerio”, and a young man already on his feet and on his way into Mal’s office to take her place in the chair by the window.
Already withdrawn into her own gloomy despair, Grace notices neither.
The rhythmic tapping of her heels echoes in the hollow emptiness of the bland green corridor, and then tick-tock tick-tocks as she trots down two flights of steps to the innocuous wooden door with its peeling paint. She pushes it open and steps out into the street, heading for the bus stop.
Across the road, she pauses just long enough to glance up at the window of Mal’s office, its blinds now closed, already convinced she would not be seeing the inside of that room again any time soon, if ever.
Chapter 8
It had been going so well, and she and Mal had been making good progress. Had been, past tense, until the minute she fucked everything up with her ludicrous suggestion that the made-up Colin had caused the bruising on her arm.
People who are only figments of imagination don’t make finger shaped bruises in living skin, only real people do that. If she had thought about it properly before opening her big fat mouth, she would have realised that the chances were she had done it to herself, by gripping onto her own arm in her sleep.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Why don’t you go for a walk?” Alec says.
Grace is sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up, the TV remote control in her hand, systematically flicking through the channels. “No thanks.”
“We can go down the pub for a drink and pick up a kebab on the way home.”
Click. Click. “I don’t really fancy it.”
Alec sighs dramatically and drops his shoulders. “You can’t stay indoors brooding for the rest of your life, Grace. You’ve got to go out sometime.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“If you’re not, it’s a damned good impression of it. Have you given any thought about when you might go back to work?”
Click. Click. “I’m still feeling a bit fragile and out of sorts. I’m not ready to face the outside world just yet, and it’s only been a few weeks. Like my therapist says, I mustn’t rush things.”
My former therapist?
Alec drops onto the sofa beside her, grabs the remote from her hand and switches off the TV. This looks serious.
“You might have to,” he says. “I didn’t want to bring this up, not after … I know you’re not well yet and you have enough on your plate to worry about, and this is just going to add to your load, but … ” He sags with a groan.
“But what, Alec? Come on, spit it out.”
He screws up his eyes, rubs at his brow and forces his words out. “Money’s been a bit tight of late and I had to pay both halves of the rent last month. A whole raft of bills have landed on the mat – leccy, council tax, car insurance, phone… everything all at on
ce, and everything’s gone up and… trade’s been down. My name’s on them all and that makes me responsible, and I can’t risk falling into arrears with anything. Red bills and final demands will really bugger up my credit score… it could affect the business. I’ve had to ask Denny for a loan to see us through.”
Grace is horrified at the revelation. She hadn’t given it a second thought.
“Alec! You idiot! Why on earth didn’t you say so? How much did you borrow? Give it him back and I’ll go to the bank first thing tomorrow and sort this out. I have the money, you know I have. We’ll be fine.”
“It’s not just about the money,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while.”
“What’s the matter?” And then the penny drops. “Oh. I see. You want me to move out.”
“It was only ever supposed to be temporary, we both knew that,” he says. “It was just to get you back on your feet after your split from Connor –” He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to rub salt into your wounds darling, but it’s been nearly a year, and Denny and me, we’re at that stage –” He snatches at her hand. “He’s the one, Grace, he’s my heart and soul and I’m his, and we want to find a place of our own, because …” The squeeze becomes painful. “We’re getting married.”
Now there’s a collection of sensations she never expected to feel simultaneously – to be shocked speechless, whilst deliriously happy and yet, at the same time, utterly heartbroken.
In a split second she’s potentially lost her best friend, her home and her security. She doesn’t know what to say except, “Congratulations?”
It comes out more like a half hearted, insincere question than a declaration of joy, and it is clear it wounds him.
“Well, thanks very much. I thought you’d be a little bit pleased for us.”
She presses her palms to his cheeks.
“I am! Alec, darling, nothing would make me happier than to see my bestest friend in the world, the one who lights up my entire universe and fills my heart with joy, married to the man he loves. I love you. I love Denny too, and if ever two people belonged together, it’s you two. I am happy for you sweetie. I really, really am.”
She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him.
“I’ll start looking for a new place first thing tomorrow … while I’m out at the bank.”
Chapter 9
Flat hunting is hard work without a car. Grace has walked miles today, following up ads in the paper and details from the lettings agency.
Her legs ache, she has blisters. She’s tired and stressed and depressed. After a bath and a glass of wine, she retires to bed, exhausted.
It might be the bone numbing tiredness, or the influence of the splendidly rich Australian cabernet, but soon her mind begins to wander and she feels powerless to stop it.
She finds herself back at the iron gate to the gardens. When she puts her hand on the barley twist ring, something catches her eye - a black rectangle of wood with block capital letters carefully painted in white.
PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.
This wasn’t here before. Colin must have put it up because somehow he knew, and quite rightly so, that she would ignore his warning not to come back, the notice was his way of reinforcing his desire not to be bothered by nosey parker interlopers.
“My garden, my rules,” she says, turning the ring, lifting the sneck and pushing open the gate. It squeaks so loudly they can probably hear it up at the house.
Last time she was here she was concentrating so hard on the garden she didn’t pay much notice to the fine red brick building with its plethora of windows and ornate chimneys. In fact, now she comes to think of it, she doesn’t remember seeing it at all. Even now it looks only half there, as if she’s looking at it though a heat haze. She might take a closer look… another time.
She stops at the rose bed to smell a bloom of the deepest red. Its perfume is heavenly, hypnotic almost, and she is sorely tempted to pluck the flower and carry it with her to enjoy it whenever she likes. They won’t miss one flower. She grasps the stem, being careful to avoid the thorns.
“Don’t yoo dare!”
The authoritative bellow makes her start and squeal with fright, and she lets go of the stem, jabbing her right middle finger on a thorn. It stings and starts to bleed, and she sucks at it.
“Mr McLeod. I didn’t see you there,” she says, the pad of her finger pressed to her lips.
He puts himself between the flowers and their potential thief. “Fit ken ye’re deein’?” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
He repeats the question. Still as clear as mud.
“You’re going to think me awfully crass, Mr McLeod,” Grace says, maintaining an air of politeness. “And I don’t mean any offence, but your accent is very strong and I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
He glares at her for a long moment before taking in a slow deep breath. “I said, what do you think you are doing?”
Every word is measured and carefully enunciated, as if he’s speaking to someone who is either deaf, or stupid, or both, and as he’s gone too far the other way, it comes out sounding condescending.
“I was admiring the roses,” she says, equally tersely.
“Gain ta steal one mair like.”
Nothing lost in translation there. “I was not!”
“I telt ye afair, these gardens are private,” he says angrily. “Ye’re trespassing and ye’re no welcome here. I’ll give ye a count of three ta be on yer way, after that…on yer ain head be it. Oan.”
So much for polite introductions. Grace folds her arms defiantly, head cocked to one side.
“Twa.”
She lifts her chin, daring him to …
“Three.”
The world turns upside down as in one swift movement he snatches, lifts, and flings her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry.
Grace yowls in alarm. “Put me down!” she screeches.
“I asked ye to go, ye refused,” he says, striding toward the gate. “I’m well within ma rights to send ye on yer way in any way I choose. Yoor fault.”
She slaps at his back. “Gerroffme! How dare you! I’ll bloody well have you for assault or kidnap or something!” She wriggles furiously, squirming and writhing until she breaks free from his grip and drops down into the gravel with a crunch, pain radiating from her banged backside. “Ow! Bloody hell!”
“Ah, crap.” A hand appears in front of her face, ready to help her to her feet. “I’m sorry. I couldna hold ye. Are ye hurt?”
She bats the hand away and gets up herself.
“No thanks to you.” She brushes gravel dust from her backside. “Touch me again and you’re going to be in a whole barrowload of trouble, matey.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“You will be when I have you up in court, showing them the bruises on my backside while I’m suing the pants off you, and that’ll be you, not me, out of here … for good!”
Colin McLeod first gapes at her, swallows hard, and then snatches his cap from his head and wrings it frantically in his hands, all the fight gone out of him. No bluff and bluster now. Instead he looks frightened and ashamed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ta … I didnae ken … I wouldnae …” Another swallow. “Forgive me.”
He bows his head, looking at his boots, and looks so totally deflated that Grace finds herself overcome with shame and guilt at having acted so unreasonably. Bombarding him with silly empty threats has done nothing but upset them both.
If this is what Dr Mal meant when he suggested Colin is merely another part of my psyche and my arguing with him represents me battling against my inner self, it seems to be a cruel and heartless way of going about it, and I don’t think I like it very much.
“It’s okay. Forget it,” she says. “No real harm done. I won’t say anything if you promise not to do it again.”
“I … I won’t.”
His head twitches and he blinks hard,
screwing his eyes tight closed. Nervous afflictions she has seen before in others, often brought on by sudden and intense stress.
She lays her hand on his sleeve to still his agitation. “It’s okay. We’ll forget all about it.”
He flinches at her touch, twitches his head again, and she removes her hand. His eyes stay on his boots.
“Thank you, Miss,” he murmurs.
“My name’s Grace. Did you forget?”
Eyes like a whipped dog’s dart to hers, then back to the ground. “No, Miss.”
An awkward silence descends and she sucks at her bleeding finger again.
“You want to get that looked at,” he says, risking a quick glance. “There might be a bitty thorn in it. It might get infected. You canna be too careful.”
She offers him the wound for examination. “I can’t see anything. Would you like to take a look? I’m sure you have plenty of experience with these types of things.”
“No, Miss.” Obviously he doesn’t like skin contact either.
“Please, I’m giving you my consent,” she says, adding, to her own astonishment, “I trust you.”
He looks as surprised as she feels and they hold each other’s gaze for a moment, until he breaks off and turns his attention to her outstretched finger, gently cupping her hand in his, holding it steady and running his fingertip over the wound, feeling for any piece of embedded thorn. For a man of such unkempt appearance, such outward roughness, his touch is ultimately tender. He lifts the finger close to his eye and examines the puncture carefully. He squeezes the skin around it and a tiny seed pearl of blood emerges. Without hesitation he snatches a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it away.
“It’s fine,” he says, and lets her go. “It’s jest a scratch. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in theer. Ye might’a sooked it out already.”
She takes her hand back, astounding herself when she discovers she is desperately disappointed he hasn’t offered to kiss it better.
“Thank you for looking,” she says.
“You’re welcome, Miss.”
Now he looks uncomfortable again, gaze darting, not knowing where to settle, and she suspects he’s embarrassed, if a vision can be embarrassed.
In The Garden Of Stones Page 6